


To Open, Break Here

by VR_Trakowski



Category: CSI: Crime Scene Investigation
Genre: F/M, reposted
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-08
Updated: 2017-02-08
Packaged: 2018-09-22 20:04:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 14,713
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9623360
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VR_Trakowski/pseuds/VR_Trakowski
Summary: Time to make a choice.  Originally posted in 2004.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Most of the characters and situations in this story belong to Alliance Atlantis, CBS, Anthony Zuicker and other entities, and I do not have permission to borrow them; any others are mine, and if you want to play with them, you have to ask me first. No infringement is intended in any way, and this story is not for profit. Any errors are mine, all mine, no you can't have any.
> 
> A thousand thanks to my generous editor, Nire the Evil! Spoilers: through "XX"
> 
> Grissom's books do exist. So does the poem, though Warrick's assumption about Google is incorrect. The diner also exists, or did a few years ago, in another form and on the other side of the country.

He expected nightmares.

They didn't come, at first. He barely made it through his shower before collapsing onto his bed, ears ringing and body shaking with low blood sugar and absolute exhaustion--physical, mental, emotional. Sleep swallowed him up in oblivion for six hours, then spat him back out to rehydrate himself. He gulped down three glasses of water and staggered back to bed, barely conscious enough to remember Catherine's threats of dire harm should he show up any time before the shift after next.

And the dreams came. Boiling up out of the underside of his mind, they invaded his sleep with gleeful enthusiasm, exacting the payment he'd put off for too long. They weren't all horrifying; some were merely the normal, illogical jumble of images and actions, while others were laden with anxiety and urgency, and he never seemed to be able to accomplish what he needed to do. But the horror came in its turn, soaking his hands with blood, filling his arms with brokenness, leaving him standing over something that had once been beautiful and vibrant. The glassed-in butterflies on his walls came alive again and flitted through his sleep, sending him signals of danger and terror. They landed on her, and became colorful patterns on her skin and hair. Sara was crying, and he couldn't help her. Sara was dying, and his hand on hers could not keep her. Sara was dead, and his fingers gripped the blade.

When he finally made it back to consciousness, poetry was running through his head.

* * *

 

Sara sat in darkness. The sun was up, but she had carefully closed the blinds and ensconced herself in the middle of her bed. She needed to do some serious thinking.

A murder victim who looked enough like her to be a twin...that was unnerving enough. The reactions of her colleagues hadn't helped the feeling, either; Catherine's careful normality was enough to make Sara twitch. But Grissom...

 _That was completely freaky._ She was used to her boss acting peculiar--he'd certainly done it often enough around her. But this weirdness outstripped any previous behavior. She'd only been puzzled, and concerned, though he'd avoided her as much as possible. She hadn't been able to put the pieces together.

Until.

She'd wanted to watch--wanted to see if they were able to corner the man they thought responsible for the slaughter of two people. She wasn't expecting the confession to come from the other side of the table. Hours later, she still didn't know what to make of it.

On the one hand, she wanted to shake Grissom for being such a stubborn idiot. On the other, she could understand why he found the risk to be too great to take. Nothing in life was guaranteed, after all. The case was proof enough of that.

But what he'd said, in that frighteningly calm voice, upset all her assumptions. _I thought he didn't care, or he didn't know. He knew all along?_

The thought made her throat hurt, burned in a space just below her breastbone. She could feel the grief building, but she didn't want to let it out just yet. _How did we get here? How did it all go so wrong?_

There were no answers. There was only the silent morning.


	2. Chapter 2

Warrick walked into the breakroom, half an hour early for shift, to find a sight that had become all too rare in recent months--his boss, actually sitting at the table and eating like a normal human being. Grissom was paging through a thick book, with three more piled next to his sandwich, and frowning down at the print before him. Warrick snagged an apple from the bowl on the counter and pulled out a chair. "Hey, Griss. Whatcha reading?"

The older man looked up over his glasses. "I'm not reading," he said mildly, and turned a page.

Warrick laughed a little. "It sure looks like it."

One corner of Grissom's mouth turned up, and he thumbed through the book to the back, running one finger down the index. "I'm doing research."

Biting into the fruit, Warrick reached out a long arm to pick up one of the other books. His brows went up as he read the title on the spine. " _Victorian Prose and Poetics._ " He tilted his head to look at another, thicker tome. " _The Atlantic Book of British and American Poetry_? What the heck are you researching? I didn't see anything poetic about that accident we were working on last night."

Grissom shook his head, looking distracted. "It's not for work. I'm trying to remember something."

Warrick swallowed his next bite. "Gil Grissom, doing personal research at work? That's a first."

Grissom shot him a low-grade glare, then shut the book and tossed his glasses on top. "Shift hasn't started yet," he said, sounding not at all irritated. He hesitated, then went on. "I've had a couple of lines of poetry floating around in my head for the past few days, and it's getting annoying. I'm trying to track them down."

"Huh." Warrick leaned back in his chair. "What are they?"

Grissom tilted his head and regarded Warrick with interest. "You read poetry?"

"Not this stuff." Warrick nudged the book nearest him. "But I still remember some of the stuff I had to learn in high school." He looked up, eyes gleaming a bit with challenge. "Try me."

Grissom hesitated, then let out a breath and rubbed his eyes. "I don't remember much, except that I know it's part of a poem. I keep thinking that if I spot something by the right author, I'll remember more." He dropped his hand and closed his eyes. "Something about hands, and blood. And...urgency, I think." He opened his eyes again, and Warrick could see that the memory was troubling him for some reason. "I can remember 'warm and capable', and 'icy silence of the grave' or something like that." Grissom shrugged. "It's not much to go on."

"Not Shakespeare..." Warrick mused, half asking, and Grissom shook his head. "Not 'The Highwayman.' ...It sounds almost like Milton."

"I know." Grissom grimaced. "But I don't think it is. It's short, whatever it is." His frown shifted into an amused look. "You're an Alfred Noyes fan?"

Warrick ignored this. "Not enough to Google, not unless you've got time on your hands. Let me have one of those."

Grissom slid another book over.

* * *

 

One thing he was good at, Grissom thought wryly as he walked into the conference room later to hand out assignments, was concealing any disturbance he felt. The Debbie Marlin case had harrowed his spirit like nothing he could remember, but after enough sleep--finally--and time to process it, he was able to look at Sara, at Catherine, with the same calm gaze that offered no hint of the turmoil he felt for one woman and that the other realized. Catherine looked back, her usual small smile gracing her lips. "How're you doing, Gil?"

"Better, thank you," he replied, acknowledging her concern with conscious effort. A year before he would have given an automatic reply of "Fine" and admitted to nothing, but he was trying to break that pattern.

Sara's gaze, on the other hand, flicked over him and away. She showed no sign of anything--not even impatience, not even curiosity. Something in him winced a little, but he went on, handing out assignments.

"Nick, Warrick, you have a robbery at the Crescent. Take Greg along if he hasn't got a backlog in DNA."

The two men exchanged smirks at the thought of having the newbie to rag on. Grissom passed another slip to Catherine. "You and Sara get a possible murder in Henderson. The wife says her husband's missing, but Brass says the situation's suspect. He'll meet you there."

"What about you?" Catherine asked.

"I get to do paperwork," he answered, sighing. Three days out had let him catch up on sleep, but had half-buried his desk in forms, and he never seemed to get ahead of the deluge. He watched the CSIs file out, and wished that he were going with them.

* * *

 

Sara was never quite sure how to define her relationship with Catherine. The older woman ranged from friendly and sympathetic to impatient and cool, almost as though her moods were defined by something outside herself. Sara knew that their lives and priorities were entirely different, and she herself had always got along better with guys anyway. But Catherine seemed disposed towards cordiality that night, tossing Sara the keys to the SUV as they collected their kits and headed for the parking lot. "You drive tonight."

"What brought that on?" Sara asked with a touch of humor.

Catherine sighed, pushing open the door and holding it so Sara could exit behind her. "Oh, I'm just tired. I've been getting up early to spend more time with Lindsey, and it's kind of taking a toll."

Sara nodded, and led the way to their vehicle. "I hear you."

The drive to Henderson was a quiet one, undercut only by the radio; Sara kept the volume low, and Catherine simply leaned back in her seat and closed her eyes, not moving until they reached their destination. The Torono home was a small one, set in a tidy yard full of flowers. A pretty picture, but all Sara could think of was the water that had to be lavished on the plants to keep them alive in a desert climate. Sometimes Las Vegas seemed to her to be the most artificial of constructs, almost an illusion wished into being by the concentrated desire of thousands of people.

Brass met them outside the house, looking disgustingly awake. Sara could smell the coffee on his breath. "Welcome to the Toronos'," he said, waving a hand in the direction of the building. "Mr. Torono hasn't been seen for three days; his wife finally called the police this afternoon."

"Grissom said you don't like the situation," Catherine said quietly, glancing towards the house. Brass frowned.

"It's just a hunch, but something doesn't feel right," he admitted. "It's all just a little too perfect." He snorted. "Probably just my cynicism, but since you guys are already here..."

"Lead on," Sara said, curious.

Mrs. Torono was small, and as tidy as her yard, and younger than Sara expected, scarcely into her thirties. She tried to offer them coffee as well, but Brass herded her gently out of the house, spinning her some explanation of "standard procedures", so that the CSIs could work without interruption. Catherine and Sara started in the bedroom, with the bed.

"No signs of sexual activity," Catherine muttered, switching off the handlight.

Sara took off her goggles and flipped the light back on. "Look around," she advised. "No dust at all. Everything's incredibly neat, down to the bottles on the dressers. Wanna bet she changes the sheets every day or two?"

"Either that, or she cleaned up before she called it in," Catherine replied with her own touch of cynicism. Sara raised her brows, and ducked into the bathroom to have a look around.

Sara didn't doubt that Brass truly felt something was wrong; he was an experienced investigator. But it wasn't until they reached the kitchen that his hunch began to play out. "Would you look at that," Catherine said softly.

The splash pattern on the floor fluoresced brilliantly in the darkness. "Could have been a kitchen accident," Sara reminded her, pro forma. "Maybe somebody cut themselves. There's not enough trace for fatal blood loss."

"But you know as well as I do that blood loss isn't the only way to die," Catherine returned, eyes gleaming with the hunt.

Sara grinned. "Does the warrant cover her car?"

* * *

 

Buried in paperwork, Grissom was only dimly aware when his CSIs returned to the lab. The boys came back first, and Nick stuck his head in, saying that hotel security had found their thief, who had confessed on the spot, and could they please have something else to do? Grissom shoved two assignment slips at him, scarcely looking up, and Nick sighed at the sight of two more trick rolls, and withdrew. Later, the sound of feminine laughter reached Grissom's ears, and he raised his head long enough to see Catherine and Sara walk by his office, laden with evidence. He took a moment to text-message Catherine, primary on that case, to tell her he'd take her report later and to go ahead and begin processing.

When he finally emerged from his office in search of coffee and updates, Catherine informed him of their findings--nonprobative but certainly enough to keep an investigation going--and that Sara had left to pick them up some lunch.

"Are you okay?" she asked, giving him a sharp look. "Have you eaten?"

"My lunch is waiting for me in my office, Mom," he replied, filling his mug.

"Good." She grinned at him. "You look a lot better than you did a few weeks ago, Griss. I'd hate to see you run yourself down again."

"I have no intention of doing so," he assured her. "But if I don't get back to the paperwork, I'll be here late."

Catherine rolled her eyes. "You'll be here late anyway," she pointed out. Grissom gave her a small grin and headed back towards his office, already lost in thought.

"Hey, Gil." A hand touched his elbow, and Grissom turned to see Brass pacing him along the corridor. "Got a minute?"

Grissom regarded him over his glasses and waved Brass into his office. The captain shut the door behind them and collapsed into a chair, blowing out his breath.

Grissom rounded his desk and sat down. "What is it, Jim?"

The older man hesitated, bit his lip, and then fixed his bright stare on Grissom. "You been paying attention to Sara lately?"

Grissom blinked, words frozen in his mouth, remembering that Dr. Lurie and his attorney had not been the only audience to his peculiar admission. Brass frowned and waved his hand dismissively.

"I'm not talking about the Marlin case," he said brusquely. "I'm talking about now. Sara, now."

Grissom took off his glasses and set them slowly onto his desk. "Yes. I have."

Brass shot him a skeptical look. "Really? What's she like?"

"Quiet," Grissom returned promptly. "No enthusiasm. It's almost like she's depressed."

"Yeah." Brass rubbed his palms over his face, the lines there deepened briefly by worry. Some small part of Grissom was touched, not for the first time, by the cop's gruff affection for the CSIs he worked with so often. "Gil, I'm talking to you because you're Sara's supervisor, and because you used to be her friend. Not for any other reason." He sighed. "I think it's more than just a passing thing. I think there's something wrong."

Grissom hid his wince at the past tense. "Wrong. As in?"

Brass shrugged. "I don't know. Maybe it is depression. I was...I was talking to her not too long ago, and--I can't tell you what we talked about, but I think she needs looking after."

"You mean professional help?" Grissom frowned. The idea of trying to convince--or order--Sara to see a counselor was one he didn't want to contemplate. The idea that things were that serious was worse.

"No, not yet." Brass leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees and letting his clasped hands dangle between. "But she needs to talk to somebody."

Grissom raised a brow at him. "So? You said she was talking with you."

Brass snorted. "Somebody not me. Catherine, maybe, or Nick. She's close to Nicky, and Catherine's a woman, maybe she'd understand better. I'm just a detective."

Grissom refrained from asking Brass just what he was supposed to do. As supervisor, he bore a certain responsibility for the health of his CSIs, both physical and mental. "So you think I should ask Nick or Catherine to talk to her."

Brass' eyes narrowed, a gently cynical look. "I'm not telling you how to do your job, Gil. Just...do something."

It wasn't the first time Grissom had been advised to do "something". But this time, he reminded himself, it had nothing to do with him. "Okay," he said finally. "I'll look into it."

* * *

 

 _"I can see why Doodles drank."_ Sara's own words echoed in her mind as she closed her apartment door behind her and scanned her small living area. Her place wasn't much more cheerful than the deceased clown's home.

She dropped her bag near the door and considered food briefly, then decided she was too tired. _Maybe I'm tired enough to sleep._ Eating would only give her more energy, and that wasn't what she wanted right now.

Alcohol would help, but there was no way she was going near the stuff now, even if she wasn't on call. _A crutch is the last thing I need._ She didn't drink often, but she had to admit that Brass had scared her a little--though she'd never admit it to _him_. She was stressed and unhappy, and she knew it--there was no sense in tempting fate.

Grumbling, she got ready for bed. She was tired enough that sleep found her quickly, but it was only two hours later that she woke, gasping.

When she came into work, Sara could almost feel the bad temper rolling off her in waves. She was tired beyond belief. Her first stop was the DNA lab, and Greg took one look at her expression and skipped the flirtation.

"Your car samples were positive for blood," he reported, almost formally, and handed her a printout. "It matches the samples from the house--definitely male. But CODIS gave me nothing."

Sara scanned the printout and sighed. "Okay, Greg. Thanks."

"What's up with this case, anyway? This is the husband who disappeared, right?"

"Yeah." She grimaced. "The wife reported him missing after three days, but Catherine and I found traces of blood in her kitchen and car. The trouble is, that's all we have to go on."

"Ouch." Greg looked as though he wanted to pat her shoulder sympathetically, but didn't quite dare.

"Yeah. Brass has some of his people looking into it. But unless we get something more, it's a dead end."

"You don't look very happy about it."

Sara looked up at the young scientist. "Brass thinks there's something funky about the whole situation, and so do I. But without something probative--"

"Dead end," Greg finished for her. One of his machines beeped. "Oh, 'scuse me."

She left him to it.

* * *

 

Halfway through the shift, her pager buzzed at her while she was poring over fragments in the Trace lab. The text message summoned her to Grissom's office. She found the door open, and knocked on the frame.

"Shut the door, please, Sara," Grissom said, looking up over his glasses at her. She did as he asked, apprehension stirring in her middle, and sat in the chair facing his desk.

"Is it evaluation time again already?" she asked, carefully casual.

Grissom shut the folder he'd been perusing and set his elbows on his desk, watching her. "No." He pushed his pen further away from his arm. "Brass came to see me earlier."

Sara sat up straight. "Did they find Mr. Torono?"

"No. This was personal." His tone was the one he used when he was in supervisor mode. One eyebrow went up as Sara made the connection, and he held up a hand. "Before you get angry, he said his conversation with you was in confidence."

Sara glared at him, trying to cover the surge of alarm. Whatever Brass' ideas about her choice in breakfast beverages, she knew that she'd laid herself open for a serious reprimand. But apparently the detective hadn't betrayed her. _Relax. He's just concerned._

"He's worried about you." Grissom echoed her thought. "So am I, for that matter. You haven't been yourself lately."

She smothered the ironic smile that wanted to emerge, and the acidic comment she wanted to make. It hurt to hear those words from him, when she knew nothing would come of them. "It's nothing."

He gave her a skeptical look, and she frowned. "Really, Grissom. I'm fine. I'm just tired."

"If you'd work less overtime, you wouldn't be so tired," he pointed out.

 _What else am I supposed to do with my time?_ she wondered sourly. _Go home and wait for the nightmares?_

"Sara..." Grissom sighed.

"Don't," she snapped, before he could go on. "Don't tell me I deserve a life again." She ignored his surprise at her outburst. "I got a life, Grissom, and you know what? It cost me your friendship and my self-respect."

She stood up, riding a wave of anger and adrenaline. "At least if I work I'm getting something accomplished. Which I'm going to go do now." She modified her tone to one of polite insolence. "If you need me, I'll be in Trace."

She strode out the door, turning her back on his startled expression and hoping to be gone before he said anything. In that, at least, her hopes were granted.

* * *

 

The quiet of the empty Trace lab helped her calm down. There was really no point in losing her temper, even at Grissom, and the flare of anger faded, leaving a dull emptiness in its place. Grissom and Brass were both too observant for Sara's taste. _Why now? Why does he have to pay attention **now**? _ Yes, she was depressed; not badly, but she was. And she knew why, too.

She'd spent so much emotional energy on Grissom, whether he noticed or not. First delighting in what seemed to be a mutual attraction, then trying to deal with his apparent numbness. And eventually, his outright rejection. She'd quit trying after that, but still some part of her hoped that someday he might open his eyes, and change his mind, until it seemed to her that he felt nothing at all.

And then she'd stood behind glass and listened while he'd cradled her heart in his hand and then dropped it to shatter on the floor. She hurt for him as much as she did for herself, a man trapped by his own inhibitions, looking out at freedom with tired, wistful eyes. But learning that he did care about her and yet still turned away killed whatever shred of hope she'd hoarded.

 _It'll pass. It always does._ The pain would fade in time, things would get back to normal. She'd go on working, because that was all she wanted to do. And maybe...someday...she'd be able to look at someone else and love them instead.

_Yeah, right._


	3. Chapter 3

Sara parked her SUV neatly between the police car and Grissom's vehicle and hopped out, fishing out her sunglasses against the rising sun. Grissom was already crouched over the corpse, and she could see the tweezers in his hand. _It never ceases to amaze me that so many bugs can exist out here in the desert. What do they eat when there's nothing dead around?_

Her mouth twitched in amusement. There was always _something_ dead around.

Brass waved her over; he hadn't gotten as far as putting a handkerchief over his nose, but she could see the distaste on his face from yards away. "I think we might have found your missing husband," he told her as she came up. "No ID, though."

"Not mine," she pointed out dryly, and leaned to get a better look at the corpse, maintaining a careful distance between herself and Grissom.

"If Sara's husband were to go missing, he wouldn't be found," Grissom commented, holding up something with many legs and examining it before dropping it in a jar. "She knows how to hide bodies."

Brass snorted; Sara ignored both the joke and the response, and stepped carefully around to the other side of the corpse, taking in details. "Plaid shirt, dark slacks, slippers," she noted. The body was face down. "Dark hair. Sure looks like our guy." She looked up at the detective. "Just like Mrs. Torono described. But who goes missing in carpet slippers?"

Brass shrugged. "She said he was just going out to get some milk. Maybe he didn't want to bother finding his shoes."

"He was beaten pretty severely," Grissom said, straightening. "Here comes David."

The coroner's van crunched to a stop behind their vehicles, and Sara stood up. "I already got photos, Sara," Grissom added. "Could you take the perimeter, please?"

"Sure." She paced a ways away to begin her sweep. Behind her, Grissom packed his bug jars away and headed for his vehicle.

They met again in the coolness of the morgue, with Catherine joining them. "Cause of death appears to be internal hemorrhaging," Dr. Robbins told them, indicating the bruises still visible on the decaying corpse. "Several broken bones. This man was beaten to death."

"Do we have a positive ID?" Grissom asked.

"Still waiting on dental records," Robbins said, but Catherine handed Grissom a photo.

"Eyeballs say this is our guy," she said. Grissom looked down at the picture--a tall man with his arm around the shorter Mrs. Torono, both of them smiling at the camera.

"Looks like it," he agreed. "Sara, what did you find at the scene?"

"Tire tracks for a late-model sedan," she replied. "They do match Mrs. Torono's car, but they're a match for a lot of other vehicles too. Nothing much else; the wind probably took it all away."

Grissom frowned, agreeing. "It looks like Mr. Torono, or whoever, was out there at least a week."

"Well, that fits the timeline," Catherine pointed out. "What else, Doc?"

Robbins moved over to the X-ray display. "Was Mr. Torono a participant in extreme sports?"

"Not as far as we know," Sara replied.

Robbins switched on the display's light. "Well, then, I'm not sure how to explain these." The films were of arms, legs, ribs. "You can see the healed fractures here, and here," the medical examiner said, pointing. "His nose was broken more than once, and his jaw has an old hairline fracture."

Sara's gut began to twist as she recognized the pattern. "Usually I see this sort of thing on extreme athletes or construction workers, people like that," Robbins went on. "But you said that Mr. Torono was an accountant?"

"It looks like abuse," Sara said, her voice harsh. "Long-term abuse."

The others turned to look at her. "It's not from childhood," Robbins said tentatively.

"You're thinking the wife?" Catherine asked, incredulous. "She's half his size!"

"All it would take would be for him to not defend himself," Grissom said austerely. "In fact, her size would make it easier if he was taught not to hit those weaker than himself."

Sara shrugged. "It's only a theory," she said, half-defensive.

Catherine shook her head. "I can't see it. How could a small woman inflict that much damage? And why didn't someone notice?"

"Why don't they notice when a husband beats his wife?" Sara returned. "He probably made the same excuses."

"Remember what you said about the head case, Catherine?" Grissom added. "Crime of passion?"

Catherine spread her hands. "If you say so," she conceded. "But we still have to prove it."

* * *

 

Two days later, Grissom was sorting reports in the breakroom when Sara came by.

"Hey, Grissom." Her voice was perfectly casual, but when he glanced up, he saw that her gaze was slightly unfocused, as though she didn't want to see him clearly. "I need Greg's report on the swabs from the post office case."

Grissom flipped through the folders he was carrying. "It must be on my desk. Right on top, in fact." He tamped down his worry at the oddness of her behavior. "Go ahead and get it; I'll be along in a couple of minutes."

She nodded, and pushed away from the door. Grissom gathered up a last folder and left the room, heading the long way around to his office so he could stick his head into Ballistics. Through the glass of the center room, he saw Sara being detained by Nick, hauled gently into one of the labs to peer into a microscope.

Ballistics was empty; a sign propped on one of the counters read "Gone for Coffee, Back in Five." Grissom snorted to himself. _Five minutes from when?_

As he left Ballistics, Warrick nearly ran him down. "Right, Brass, I'll be right there," the younger man said into his cellphone, then snapped it shut. Already past Grissom, he spun in midstride. "I think I found that poem you were looking for, Griss," he called back. "It's on your desk." And he was gone around the corner.

Shaking his head at Warrick's energy, Grissom turned towards his office, curious to see what his volunteer researcher might have come up with.

* * *

 

Sara slipped into the shelf-crowded room, eyes fixed on the stacked desk. She didn't really need to talk to Grissom about the report, and all in all she'd rather be out of his office by the time he arrived. It was easier that way.

The top folder on the center pile was thin, but she expected that; what she didn't expect was the single sheet of paper inside that bore only a block of print, rather than the neat array of data her eyes were anticipating. She skimmed it quickly, confused, then went back to try to make sense of it, speaking the words out loud as the rhythm compelled her.

"This living hand, now warm and capable/Of earnest grasping, would, if it were cold/And in the icy silence of the tomb,/So haunt thy days and chill thy dreaming nights/That thou wouldst wish thine own heart dry of blood/So in my veins red life might stream again,/And thou be conscience-calmed--see here it is--/I hold it towards you."

An odd little silence hung in the air when she finished speaking. She frowned down at the paper, bewildered by its presence in an office dedicated to science, then looked up.

He was so pale that she took an abortive step forward, afraid that he was going to pass out. Grissom had one hand against the doorframe and was leaning hard on it, his eyes fixed on her with a peculiar agony.

Puzzled, disturbed, she cleared her throat. "Griss?"

His mouth moved, as though he were grasping after words, and finally he blinked. As he straightened, the phone on his desk rang, and they both started.

Grissom shook his head sharply, as though trying to shed something, and strode forward to snatch the phone off its cradle. "Grissom...yeah..." Tucking the headset between shoulder and ear, he drew the folder from Sara's hands, replacing it with one from his desk. "No, that was last week." His voice was irritated.

He grimaced at Sara, lifting his hands in a helpless gesture and then moving the phone away from his mouth. "I'll talk to you later," he hissed, and returned to his conversation. If she hadn't been paying attention, she would have thought his earlier... _shock? Yes, it was shock_...had been her imagination, but something in his posture told her it had happened. She nodded automatically, and left his office with her file.

* * *

 

It took Grissom almost five minutes to finish what he considered to be a completely unnecessary phone call. He hung up the phone and sat back in his chair, taking off his glasses and tossing them onto his desk. One hand rose to pinch the bridge of his nose. _Of all the things to have happen--_

Warrick's ear for poetry was exact. The Keats fragment was indeed what had been taunting him with phrases that sang under his consciousness and then vanished the instant he tried to focus on them. A shudder ran down Grissom's spine at the memory of the words spoken in Sara's unique pattern. Coming on top of the dreams--which still bothered him--the whole thing was downright eerie. _And, given the dreams, all too appropriate._ That was exactly how he'd felt, dreaming; that he would do anything, give up anything, to save her, and yet he had turned away so often.

He glanced at the pile of paperwork with distaste, and then lifted his eyes to the door. Sara had shut it behind her. _Just as well. I need time to think._

He sighed, and closed his eyes briefly. The Debbie Marlin case had forced him to a number of acknowledgments about himself, most of which were distinctly uncomfortable. It was true, what he'd told Dr. Lurie; he hadn't been able to take the risk. _But...things change._ And the risks he'd thought insurmountable before were beginning to look less so.

It had all seemed like some impossible bright dream, he remembered; the idea that his former student, his CSI, his friend, might actually return the emotions that ran deeper than flirtation. And then she'd given him an opening, and he'd backed away.

 _She's perfect. She always has been. We're so much alike--and if anyone could understand the demands of this job, she would._ Terri Miller's refusal, silent and pointed, had left a bitter taste in his mouth and a bruise on his ego, if not his heart. But Sara--Sara knew what the work was like, and was just as intent on it as he. Sara, who was brilliant, who was passionate, who took his breath away...who understood him on levels that no one else did. _I don't understand why she is attracted to me--if she still is--but I'm beyond questioning it._

_...Is she? Still?_

Grissom wondered if a second chance was possible. He'd all but destroyed their friendship, he knew that, but while Sara seemed to have retreated into a cool professionalism, tempered with flashes of their old camaraderie, she was still there.

 _This is ridiculous._ His burst of bad temper evidenced itself only in a sharp sigh and a frown. He'd been mooning after the woman for years on end, and the Marlin case had only served to point out how time was passing. _I've been regretting this for too long. How much will I regret it later if I do nothing at all?_

_So...how do I go about this?_

Grissom wasn't sure how to begin. On the one hand, he badly wanted to repair their friendship, whether or not she was still interested in a deeper relationship. But doing so might take a long time, and he didn't want to take the risk of losing her to someone else. _Both at once, then._ He was briefly tempted to send her anonymous gifts, but figured she would find it more disturbing than romantic. _That's all she needs, to think I'm a stalker._

He knew he'd hurt her, and not just with his refusal of her dinner invitation. He wasn't stupid; he figured that the rumor mill had informed her of his...interest...in Lady Heather, and guessed that it had stung her as much as her paramedic boyfriend had stung him. The question she'd asked him weeks before, about her chances for the promotion, had hit him with a pain that had left him breathless; it had also pointed out to him how wide the gap between them had become.

He could, he reflected, simply lay the whole issue out before her, and let her make a choice. But something in him warned that things were still too fragile for that. _If I'm going to take this risk, I want the odds to be as good as possible._ Better to try to strengthen their bond a little first.

So he made a stop on the way home.

* * *

 

Sara caught the white oblong as it slid off her locker shelf, and flipped it over, puzzled. _A card? It's not my birthday._

Whoever had poked it through the vent in her locker door had not labeled the envelope. She sat down on the bench and slid a finger beneath the flap; it opened easily, and she pulled out a card that had a cartoon drawing of a busy-looking young lady with an oversized magnifying glass. Opening it, she was mildly stunned by the words inside. "I saw this and thought of you. Good job on the grocery store case. Grissom."

 _What is this, some new management technique? Or has he finally gone around the bend?_ She stared at the card for a long moment, closing it to look at the picture and then opening it again to reread the words. Finally, she slid it back into the envelope and put it on her locker shelf again, baffled.

"What's up, Sar?"

She turned to smile at Nick. "The usual," she said dryly.

"Spend the day with your police scanner again?" he asked, opening his own locker. Sara watched, but nothing fell out.

"Very funny," she said, giving him a mock-annoyed glare. "As a matter of fact, I went out with some friends."

"Ooh." Nick's face lit up and he gave her a teasing grin. "Any of 'em single?"

She rolled her eyes, smirking. "One is, Nick, but I don't think he's your type." His choke of laughter cheered her. "See you in a few," she added, closing her locker and leaving him behind.

Rather to her surprise, Grissom assigned her to the same murder he was working on, though he sent her ahead when the Sheriff cornered him on the way out of the building. She was already hip-deep in processing by the time he arrived at the scene, and they spent almost an hour working on different parts of the victim's house before ending up in the living room. Glancing over as Grissom lifted a print from the coffee table, Sara finally spoke. "Thanks for the card."

From her angle, she could see only his profile, but it was enough; she saw the corner of his mouth tilt up. All he said, however, was "You're welcome."

Once upon a time, she would have asked him if he'd given all the others cards. This time, she just let it go. If he expected questions, he didn't show it, and they finished processing the house in a peace that had become all too rare lately.

* * *

 

"Hey, Brass." Sara leaned back in her chair in the breakroom, fiddling with her lunch and listening to Brass' tinny greeting on her cellphone. "Paperwork's done, and Griss says you can bring Mrs. Torono in for questioning." Catherine passed by outside the window and waved, her eyes lingering on Sara just a little too long. Sara waved back, resigned, and chatted with Brass for a moment before signing off.

She knew Catherine and Grissom were watching her; Catherine, because of Sara's sensitivity to domestic abuse, and Grissom for whatever obscure reasons of his own. It was true that abuse cases tended to get to her, but she could tell that they just didn't know how she was going to react to a possible reversal of the common pattern.

And she let them wonder.

 _If it was abuse, there's no way Mr. Torono was going to admit it to anybody._ The idea of a man being beaten up by a woman half his size--and his wife, at that--would not go over well with most other males. _It's that code they have,_ she thought, mildly baffled by the behavior of the opposite sex, the power plays and the displays.

It had occurred to her, on one of the slow dim mornings while she waited for elusive sleep, that she didn't often see Grissom show overtly masculine traits. It wasn't that he was not completely male; but unlike Nick or Warrick, he seemed to have no need to prove it. Of course, they were younger, but Brass, who was older, stalked around projecting unconscious, solid masculinity. Grissom didn't seem to...bother, most of the time. As though he had no need to participate in the semi-aware competition that the male gender so often had running. As though he had no feeling of inferiority. _It's kind of refreshing, actually. Nice change from the macho studs who can't forget it._

And yet, there were moments when it flashed out...when anger or some indefinable stimulus moved him to remind those around him of his gender. Not, generally, with belligerent suspects; he didn't need to, he was usually secure in his position as one in possession of evidence that would support his point. But she remembered the time Warrick and a cop they were investigating got into it in the hallway, and Grissom had flashed out of the lab to face down a man younger and taller than he. With ease.

 _It was different, then._ That had been not long after she'd arrived, when they were still easy with each other. Before Grissom retreated into himself and things started to slide.

Sara toyed with her spoon, scooping up a bit of fruit salad and then letting it fall back into the container. _He was acting so weird. It was like he didn't realize we knew he was having trouble hearing us._ None of them--not even she--had quite dared broach the subject with him. And then he'd taken a week off, ostensibly for a visit to relations, and had returned with a beard, better hearing, and a new attitude. None of them knew what to make of that, either.

She remembered what he had been like when she first arrived--not exactly open, but not so isolated. He'd aged since then, though she thought the beard suited him very well.

 _I wish...I wish we could talk like we used to. Just talk, just share things._ She sighed and dropped the spoon back into the bowl.

The breakroom door swung open, and Grissom came in, carrying a paper bag. Sara straightened in her chair, a little taken aback at the materialization; she'd been so absorbed in her thoughts that she hadn't seen him coming.

"Hey," he said brightly. He smelled of the outdoors.

"Hey," she returned, expecting him to sit down. She put the spoon in her mouth so she could use both hands to put the lid on the bowl.

Grissom didn't sit, instead sliding the small bag across the table to her. "These are for you," he said, eyes crinkling at the sight of her--gaze startled and inquiring, and mouth full of flatware. "Bagels and cinnamon cream cheese."

Taken aback, Sara fumbled the spoon out of her mouth. "For me? Grissom, what--"

Already halfway out the door, he glanced back. "You don't eat enough," he said, his tone still cheerful, and then he was gone.

Sara stared after him, flabbergasted.


	4. Chapter 4

Their suspect sat in the interrogation room, tidy as a small brown bird. Brass and Catherine sat opposite her; Sara took up a position near the door, leaning on the wall with her arms folded. She knew her theory seemed far-fetched, but while women abusing men was a rarity, it wasn't unheard of. The trouble would be not only proving it, but convincing a jury; all the more difficult given the difference in size between the victim and his wife.

"Thank you for coming in, Mrs. Torono," Catherine said politely. "We just have a few questions."

"Of course." Mrs. Torono had a handkerchief in one hand, and she sniffled delicately into it. "Anything, if it'll help catch the people who did that to George."

Brass rested his folded hands on the table. "I know we asked already, but can you think of anyone who might have had a grudge against your husband? Anyone who was angry enough to kill him?"

The diminutive woman shook her head. "No. No one. Everybody liked George."

"Do you know if he was involved in anything shady? Double-booking for one of the casinos, for instance."

Mrs. Torono sat up straighter and gave Brass a shocked look. "Of course not!"

Brass raised his hands in a conciliating gesture. "We have to ask," he said easily.

Their suspect sniffled again, her indignation fading. "I don't understand why someone did this to him."

"Mrs. Torono--" Catherine leaned forward a little. "I'm sorry to have to ask this, but was your husband involved with anyone else? A...guy, perhaps?"

Again, shock. "George would never cheat on me. We _loved_ each other."

"Your husband had a lot of old injuries," Catherine pointed out neutrally. "Broken bones, hematomas. We've talked to his co-workers, his friends. You don't get those kinds of injuries from golf."

The slender shoulders stiffened, and Sara's eyes narrowed. _She's going to start lying._

"George was...clumsy," Mrs. Torono said, her voice sad. "He was always tripping on things or falling down the stairs. Once he even fell out of bed."

Sara's gaze met Brass', and she could see her thoughts mirrored in his eyes. She pushed away from the wall and walked to the table. "Mrs. Torono, your husband was treated three times at Desert Palms last year for bruised ribs or other injuries. His dentist repaired his front teeth twice." She laid the medical reports out in front of the woman. "You, on the other hand, have been taking kickboxing classes at the local YMCA for six years." She put one hand on her hip. "Bet those teach you how to land a punch, huh?"

The woman's stare went icy. "What are you saying?"

"You beat your husband," Sara said, spinning her story with practiced care. "He didn't fight back, for whatever reason. And one day, you hit him too hard or too often, and he died."

"It must have been quite a job to get him into the car," Brass said, his voice almost admiring. "He was a big guy. But you managed it, and you dumped him in the desert."

"You must have figured that no one would suspect you," Catherine chimed in. "After all, who would think a little woman like you could kill someone like him?"

"You...you don't have any proof," Mrs. Torono said, gaining confidence as she spoke.

"Actually we do," Sara said, putting more papers on the table. "We found his blood in your kitchen and your car, and the tire tracks we found near the body match your vehicle. And your story...well, who goes to the store in their slippers?" Her last comment was weak, Sara knew, but with so fragile a foundation they needed anything they could throw at her.

"Not to mention the fact that you waited three days to call it in," Brass added. "Your husband goes out for milk one evening and doesn't come back? You should have been on the phone before midnight."

"I...I..." Mrs. Torono trailed off, looking from one person to the next. "I...want a lawyer."

"You'll get one." Brass swept the papers together as he and Catherine rose, and he nodded to the officer at the door. "In the meantime, you're under arrest."

* * *

 

Sara rapped lightly on the doorframe of Grissom's office. "You paged?" she said dryly.

"Yeah, come on in," Grissom said, signing one last paper before looking up at her with pleasure. "Have a seat."

She regarded him for a moment. "You want me to close the door?"

"Only if you think it's necessary." He folded his hands on his blotter.

She gave him one of her skeptical looks. "Since I don't know why I'm here..."

"Leave it open and have a seat. Please."

She sat, and Grissom took a few seconds to just look at her. Still bone-thin, but some of the deep weariness had faded from her eyes, and the lines of her face were not so taut. Grissom didn't know if he had anything to do with that, but he could hope.

"So...why _am_ I here?"

Grissom smiled. "First of all, I want to compliment you on your handling of the Torono case. Brass said your work was first-class."

She shrugged, but he was pleased to see her face lighten a little. "It wasn't just me."

"True. But you're the one here, now." He bit his tongue as she looked puzzled. "I'll give Catherine my compliments later."

"Well. Thanks," she said awkwardly, and he winced internally. Had it been so long since he'd told her what a good job she did?

He unfolded his hands and sat back. "Second, it has been brought to my attention that some of my CSIs are a little overworked." He snorted mentally at Catherine's memory and chose his words carefully to avoid setting off Sara's temper again. "I know you love your work, Sara, but is there anything I, as your supervisor, can do to make your job easier?"

Her mouth fell open a little and she stared at him. He kept his expression calm and stared back. Finally she gave herself a little shake. "No, not that I can think of. Not right now, anyway."

"You sure?"

She pursed her lips the way she did when she was trying to hide a smile. "Not unless you want to get me one of those electronic noses that Warrick keeps raving about."

He grinned, relieved that she felt relaxed enough to joke. "I'll take it under advisement."

* * *

 

Brass stuck his head into the layout room. "Sara. Got a minute?"

She straightened and gave him a deadly look. "That depends. Are you going to run to Grissom after this conversation too?"

The detective looked embarrassed, and after glancing around to make sure she was the only person in the room, he stepped inside and shut the door behind him. "Look, Sara...I just..."

She was prepared to yell at him, but he looked worried. Not about her, but for her. And somewhere inside, it felt very good to have somebody care.

"Forget it," she said brusquely. "What's up?"

He shot her a skeptical glance, and then apparently decided that she wasn't going to tear into him after all. "Mrs. Torono made a deal."

"Really?" Sara felt her brows go up.

"Yup. She really should have hired a lawyer who wasn't just out of law school. I spun him the same cock-and-bull story we gave her, and he never even thought to question the implication that we had more evidence."

"Huh." The satisfaction that welled up in her had long been missing from her work. "Sweet!"

Brass gave her a grin that bordered on evil. "You said it. This one's going in my weird file, though. Domestic abuse we see all the time, men on women, guys on guys, adults on kids, but a wife beating on her husband..."

Sara shrugged. "It happens. Nobody talks about it, but it happens."

"I guess not. Definitely not something a guy mentions to his buddies."

"Testosterone," Sara said a bit smugly. Brass clapped his hand to his chest, feigning hurt, and winked.

"See you around," he said, and turned to walk out, almost bumping into Grissom. "Man! You have got to get rid of that habit of sneaking up on people."

"I don't sneak," Grissom said. "Glad I caught you. Sara, do you realize that it is ten minutes past the end of shift?"

Sara glanced down at her array of photos, then back up. "If you two are going to get on my case again..."

Grissom raised one hand. "Not at all. I merely wished to inform you both that the night shift is going out for breakfast, and you're invited. My treat."

"Free food? Count me in," Brass said, and reached up to unclip his tie. "I'll ride with you."

Grissom cocked a brow at Sara, waiting.

She felt a slow smile growing. It had been a long time since they'd all gone out together. "Okay. Just let me put these away."

* * *

 

"Just like old times, eh, partner?" muttered Brass around a mouthful of hash browns. Grissom laughed a little, letting his coffee cup warm his hands as the two men listened to Sara and Nick bickering cheerfully with Greg.

The seven of them had crammed themselves around an inadequate table, stealing chairs from another, and were now immersed in pancakes, bacon, and arguments. Warrick was working his way through an omelet the likes of which were unknown elsewhere; Grissom reflected that the Russians who ran the diner seemed to think that regular-sized breakfasts were for wimps. Catherine cut into the conversation in support of whatever point Greg was trying to make, earning a one-armed hug from the lab tech.

Greg had been amazed to be asked along, Grissom recalled, despite the fact that he was basically an unofficial intern at this point. _Sara's not the only one I need to reconnect with._

Feeling mischievous, he picked up his fork from his empty plate, and leaned over to snag a chunk of pineapple from Sara's bowl of fruit while she was distracted by the ongoing debate. Warrick's sudden splutter made her look around, but by that time Grissom had stuffed the pineapple in his mouth and assumed an innocent expression. Sara glanced at her plate, but apparently saw nothing amiss, and returned to the conversation.

So of course he had to do it again.

However, as soon as his arm reached its full extension, Sara's hand slammed down onto his wrist, pinning his hand to the table. "Touch my breakfast again and die, boss," she said, cheerfully menacing.

The table erupted in laughter. Grissom merely gave her a superior look, suppressing his own smile. "Have you forgotten I'm paying for breakfast? Technically, this all belongs to me."

Her expression didn't change. "My fork's been in that. You'll get my germs."

Tempted as he was to take the fruit anyway, Grissom decided that doing so would be pushing things too far. _I'm trying to make her more comfortable, not less._ He gave an exaggerated sigh. "Have it your own way, Sidle."

She snorted and let his arm go. On impulse, he ran his knuckle up the underside of her arm as he pulled away, a hidden caress. He'd made similar moves before, but this time when her startled eyes met his, he didn't look away, instead holding her gaze.

"That is still such bullshit, Greg," Nick exclaimed. "Sara, back me up on this."

She turned her head, breaking the connection. "You should know better, Greg," she said, and the argument was off and running again. Grissom sat back, satisfied.

* * *

 

The ride back to the lab was silent at first. Finally, Grissom glanced over at the passenger seat. "Spill it," he ordered.

Brass raised his brows and looked innocent. "What?"

"Whatever it is you're not saying," Grissom returned dryly. "You're not saying it so loud that I can almost hear it."

The detective laughed, a soft sound. "You may be fooling everybody else, but you're not fooling me, and you're sure not fooling her."

"I don't want to fool her." Grissom braked for a yellow light.

"Yeah? Then what the heck have you been doing all these years?"

Grissom smiled grimly. "Acting like an idiot."

"You got that right, brother." Brass shifted in his seat and sighed. "Dr. Lurie changed your mind for you?"

Grissom shrugged. Normally the conversation would make him uncomfortable, but he felt as though the morning's events had given him a sort of insane confidence. "Something like that."

His friend was silent for a while. "You know I'm all for it," he said at last. "And most of the night shift would love to see you two quit picking at each other. But Gil, are you sure? 'Cause if you screw this up, you will lose her."

Grissom swallowed, and put the car in motion as the light changed. "I'm terrified," he admitted. "But..."

He trailed off. Brass glanced over at him. "But?"

"I have this image in my head. I've had it for a long time." His eyes narrowed. "It's the two of us, sitting somewhere. Outside, I think. She's sitting a little higher than me, maybe on a curb. I'm leaning back against her, and she has her arms wrapped around my shoulders." He lifted one hand and touched the base of his throat, as though to close his fingers over the wrist that wasn't there. "She's laughing," he added wistfully.

"Huh." Brass raised his brows, then nodded, a thoughtful gesture. "Yeah, that'll do."

* * *

 

Sara was bored out of her mind. She folded her arms and listened to the defense attorney droning on, and wished that the seats in the courtroom were better padded. _I love my job, but testifying in court can be such a pain in the ass. Literally._

She'd spent her first fifteen minutes of waiting going over the testimony she would...eventually...be called to give. She'd spent the next forty-five thinking about the attempted casino theft case that languished at the lab, waiting for her to return from court, and it was about forty minutes too much. _Big deal. Two idiots, one bad plan, and sloppy security. Waste of time._

Eventually, inevitably, her thoughts had drifted to her supervisor, but nothing productive had come of them. The puzzle of Grissom, combined with the heat of the room, a double shift, and an acute lack of coffee, were conspiring to give her a headache.

Sara frowned and rubbed her temple, then fished in her purse for some analgesics and swallowed them dry. _I just don't get him._ He'd spent months pushing her away, and now all of a sudden she was the focus of his attention, and it was making her uncomfortable. It didn't make sense.

_He said he couldn't do it. I **heard** him. So what's with the flirting? _ The friendliness she could handle, even if it puzzled her. Anything more just hurt. _If that's all I'm gonna get, I'd really rather he didn't._

She wondered when, exactly, her feelings for him had gone from "let's see what happens" to the terrifying depth that now plagued her. And whether rebuilding a friendship--no matter how much she wanted it--was really possible.

Her tangled thoughts were interrupted by the sound of her name as she was called to the stand. "Finally," she muttered under her breath, and stood.

Giving testimony was usually routine; Grissom had trained his people well, and there were rarely holes for attorneys to exploit. Nevertheless, Sara paid attention. There was no point in giving the defense any opportunities.

_Especially this guy._ The attorney was really starting to piss her off--asking stupid questions and then interrupting her halfway through her answers. She kept an iron grip on her temper, remaining outwardly cool and professional, but her fingers were itching to grab his ugly tie and use it to gag him. Her only consolation was that he seemed to be irritating the judge almost as much.

The process seemed endless. At some point, though, her gaze caught on a familiar figure in the back of the courtroom. Grissom was sitting in the last row, watching her calmly. She let her stare flow over him and away, lest the defense attorney think she wasn't paying attention, but she was puzzled. He wasn't dressed for court, and he wasn't even supposed to work that evening. He had the night off.

By the time she was dismissed, Sara felt like her temper was hanging by a thread. Her head was pounding, her blood sugar was low, and all she wanted to do was go home and collapse into cool sheets.

Grissom stood as she neared the back of the courtroom, and held the door open for her to exit. "You look nice," he said quietly, nodding towards her suit as she passed. "Very professional."

She suddenly wasn't in the mood for company, his or anyone else's. "It's my job, Grissom."

If her annoyance affected him, he didn't show it. "And you do it well." He matched her strides as she headed towards the exit. "Have you eaten?"

Sara sped up a little so as to reach the door first. "No. And I'm not going to, either." She stepped out into the shade of the courthouse's portico, the midmorning sunlight beyond making her squint. "Why are you here, Grissom?"

"I wanted to watch you." He took his sunglasses out of his jacket pocket, but didn't put them on, instead cocking his head to regard her.

"Watch me? What for?" Sara folded her arms again. "I've been doing this for years now."

"I know." Grissom still showed no reaction to her less-than-polite tone. He reached out and put a hand lightly under her elbow, guiding her away from the traffic through the door. "I just wanted to see you."

"You see me every day." Sara echoed her earlier words to him, frowning, and he smiled.

"Technically, not quite every day," he corrected. When he didn't go on, Sara sighed.

"Grissom. What are you doing here?"

He looked up at the building, then back to her. "Courting you."

She was so tired that the pun took seconds to register. "What?"

"Courting you." His expression was still calm, but his eyes had gone wary.

Sara closed her eyes briefly and frowned again, trying to assimilate his words. She knew what he meant, but it didn't make sense. "I don't get it."

"Remember when you asked me out to dinner?"

She stared at him, taken aback. "I'm not likely to forget it," she said at last.

Grissom bit his lip, and shrugged. "I'm trying to see what will happen."

_But...but..._ She couldn't verbalize her confusion. He'd already admitted that such a thing was beyond him.

"I was going to ask you if it was too late, but I decided not to," he added.

Baffled, she finally managed to speak. "Decided not to?"

He cocked a brow at her, faint humor. "You might say yes."

"What if it is yes?"

"Don't tell me."

"Don't _tell_ you? Why not?" He was getting more confusing by the minute.

"Well...if I don't know the answer, then maybe I can still change your mind." He lifted one hand--one of those wide-palmed, astonishingly deft hands that she'd dreamed about so often--and tucked her hair behind her ear. Their eyes were almost on a level, and as his warm fingers brushed her cheekbone, she was caught. An incredible sense of possibility made her dizzy; then reason reasserted itself.

"I...I can't deal with this right now, Grissom," she said. She couldn't process it. He dropped his arm, and the pain on his face was so swiftly concealed that she almost missed it. "No--I'm not--" She bit her lip, trying to marshal her thoughts. "I'm not...turning you down. I just need time to think. I'm exhausted."

He let out a breath. "Okay."

Sara nodded slowly. The number of chemicals running through her system right then should be illegal, she thought fleetingly. "I'll...see you tomorrow," she said, and turned to leave.

She got about five feet. "Sara."

She turned back around. "What?"

"I'm not giving up." He slid on his sunglasses, gave her a smile, and walked away.


	5. Chapter 5

Sara gulped down the last bite of her sandwich and pushed through the lab's main doors in a hurry. She was late--not by much, but still late. She'd been so tired after court that she'd managed to get in six dreamless hours of sleep, but she'd also slept right through her alarm.

Turning the corner near the conference room, she almost ran into a fast-moving Grissom, and flinched back, startled. "What are you doing here? You're off tonight."

He seemed to stiffen a little. "Bugs," he explained, and detoured around her, shrugging on a jacket. She bit her lip, but he was already gone, and she didn't know what she wanted to say to him anyway. The morning's puzzling conversation still sat undigested in her brain; she hadn't had time yet to sort it out.

"There you are." Sara turned to see Warrick leaning out of the conference room door. "Girl, you're late!"

"Tell me about it," she riposted, and slid past him into the room. "Cath, I'm sorry--"

The older woman shook her head and smiled. "Good grief, Sara, don't worry about it. If I call you on being late then I have to call me, and I really don't want to do that." She raised her brows at the snickers from Nick and Warrick. "Pipe down there, boys. Here."

She passed out slips. "Nick, you and Sara have a DB at a library on Vine. Some kind of fight. Warrick, you and I are going to Tops for a robbery."

Warrick raised his brows, and Nick whistled at the mention of the strip club, but both refrained from commenting in front of Catherine.

"No Greg tonight?" Sara asked.

"No Greg tonight," Catherine confirmed. "The whole lab is swamped, and he's needed in DNA. Grissom had to come in to deal with some insects on a body, and the only reason I'm not splitting us all up is because I think things will go faster if we work together. No dawdling, guys." She gave the three a stern look. "Let's go."

Sara snatched up the SUV keys, just beating out Nick's grab. "You snooze, you lose," she told him, and dodged his mock punch.

"Yeah, yeah. C'mon, Sidle, last one to the car has to do the interviews!"

The library was chaos--a corpse with no obvious cause of death, books and paper scattered all over, and four people with bruises and eleven restive witnesses under police supervision. Sara stared at the huge bookcase lying on its side before snapping photographs. "How'd they get _that_ to fall over? It must weigh a ton!"

"Good question," Nick said, crouching over some blood staining the carpet. "How much you wanna bet we're going to get fifteen different stories?"

"No bet," Sara said dismally. "Hey, David."

The coroner gave her his usual shy smile. "Hi, guys. Busy night, huh?"

"Just getting started," Nick grunted, and stood as David knelt by the body.

The large, heavy-set man's eyes were staring at the ceiling; his shirt had been ripped open by the paramedics. "No blood, aside from the cut lip," David murmured, half to himself. "No obvious wounds."

"You thinking heart attack?" Sara asked, leaning over for a closer look.

"Possibly," David said. "But we won't really know until we get him back to the morgue. Bring it in, Frank," he added, looking over his shoulder for his assistant and the gurney.

"Hey!" The irate shout came from the lobby, where the witnesses were being held. "I need to get home! You can't keep me here--"

Sara and Nick exchanged exasperated glances as the woman ranted on. "Flip you for it," Nick said gloomily, fishing a quarter from his pocket.

"Heads," Sara said as the coin spun through the air.

Nick caught it and slapped his palm onto his wrist, then lifted his hand to display an eagle. "Sorry, Sar."

She grumbled under her breath, handed him her camera, and stalked out to start the interviews.

* * *

 

Grissom, crouching over the corpse, closed his fingers delicately on his tweezers and lifted an impressive specimen to light, but his mind wasn't entirely on the vigorously squirming larva.

_Did I go too far?_

He hadn't meant to say so much so soon. And yet, something had compelled the truth from him. Maybe it had been Sara's irritation and obvious exhaustion; maybe it had just been time to say it, to stop backing away. He'd told Brass the truth; he was terrified. But when the only alternative was loss, the risk didn't seem too high.

He sighed, and deposited the larva in a jar, automatically shifting to ease the ache in his knees. Part of his consciousness was already running preliminary time-of-death calculations based on the specimens he'd collected so far, but another part was wondering what Sara would say to him the next time she saw him...what choice she would make.

It was odd--he'd spent so much time trying to contain what he felt for her. Years, in fact. And now that he was allowing himself the possibility of something more than friendship, an unfamiliar impatience was nudging him in directions he might not normally choose to go.

Grissom capped the last jar, spoke with the attending officer, and returned to his SUV. Pulling onto the highway, he headed back to the lab, and as he settled into the routine of driving, Sara once again rose to the forefront of his thoughts. In his mind's eye, he saw her as she had been earlier in the day--crisply dressed, but drawn with stress and weariness. He'd wanted so much to simply ease her, in whatever way he could, and instead, he feared he'd only added to her strain.

_She's an investigator. Of course she would insist on knowing why I was there._ And maybe he'd realized that too, on some level. He wondered ironically if his own subconscious was conspiring against him.

His memory shifted to an earlier time--perhaps not happier, but less charged. Sara and Warrick standing in a flood of sun in his townhouse, the rich colors of Warrick's hair and skin all but glowing in the light that, at the same time, underscored the pure lines of Sara's face and darkened her eyes to velvet. Their voices mingled as they told Grissom of their findings, Warrick's deep and deliberate, Sara's sharper; they'd both watched his face for cues, loyal to him beyond all his expectations. His protégés, his friends. Two of the finest people he knew.

Grissom's hands tightened on the steering wheel, fighting the urge to reach out and touch the vivid memory. The past was immutable.

_What if I'm wrong? What if she doesn't want this...me...any more?_ The fear brought an ache deep in his chest. _If I've thrown this away..._

But she was still there. He held to the thought.

* * *

 

"Hey!"

Sara looked up from her paperwork at the sharp word, a bit wary, to find Catherine standing next to the table. "Hmm?"

"Go home." Catherine put her hands on her hips, gimlet-eyed.

Sara blinked. "But I haven't--"

"It's paperwork. It can wait. Go home." Catherine shook her head. "You've been going like blazes all night, it is now an hour past the end of shift, and you worked a double shift last night. You're not going to work one tonight."

"C'mon, Cath, there's still a lot of work to do, and Greg said Grissom went home at midnight."

"So? He had the night off in the first place." The older woman smiled, her stern expression softening. "Give me a break and go home, Sara. I don't want to be responsible for trying to justify your overtime. That's Grissom's bag."

Sara gave up, and grinned. "If you're sure--"

"Nick's staying late too. I'm sure between the two of us we can finish up."

"All right, Cath. Thanks." Sara stood and began stacking papers.

"Nope." Catherine put her hand over the paperwork. "Leave it. Out!"

Sara raised her hands and backed away, laughing. "Okay, okay!"

Her drive home was occupied with swearing at traffic and trying to sort out the night that had just passed. It had been so busy that she'd barely had time to breathe, let alone think about anything but the cases they'd worked on. Shutting her front door behind her, she dropped her bag at her feet and leaned back against the door, just reveling in the quiet. Which was promptly broken by a knock between her shoulder blades.

Sara swore, half in startlement, and spun to yank the door open. " _What?_ "

The young woman on the other side took a step backwards. "Um...Ms. Sidle?"

Sara looked her over in one quick glance. Uniform, cap, long box, timid expression.

"Yeah, that's me." She smiled a bit sheepishly. "Sorry. Long night."

The teenager blinked, clearly not understanding, and held out the box and a clipboard. "These are for you. Sign here, please." As soon as Sara took the box and scrawled her signature, the young woman scurried away, obviously spooked.

_Great. Now I'm scaring kids._ Sara shut her door again and looked down at the container in her arm. Setting the box on her counter, she eased off the lid and parted the tissue paper, and drew in her breath. The irises, a rich violet-blue, glowed against the green paper, and she worked her hands carefully under the stems and lifted. The scent of vanilla rushed out into the room, and she held the blossoms to her nose to get a deeper whiff.

"Wow," she murmured. "I've never seen anything like these."

Putting them gingerly back in the box, she fished out the small envelope that had been tucked among them and opened it. This time, the card was in Grissom's own handwriting, and bore more than two words.

"Sara--I was going to send you roses, but when I saw these they reminded me of you--brilliant, unusual, and stunning. I'm sure you have questions. Feel free to ask them. --Grissom"

Her mouth dropped open. Once again, emotions flooded her in such a tangle that she couldn't sort them out, but somewhere in there was fury, and amazement, and something that put warmth in her chest and a lump in her throat. _Is this what he meant by "courting"?_

She leaned back against the edge of the sink, reading the words again. _I guess it's time to think about this._

* * *

 

Two hours later, she found herself staring down into her cereal. What remained of it was soggy and unappetizing, and she finally dumped the whole mess into her sink. She knew she should eat something more--lunch had never happened--but she had no appetite. And it was all Grissom's fault.

Sara rinsed out the bowl and set it aside. _What is he doing? What am **I** doing? _ Did she want to take a chance on Grissom any more, maddening as he was? After all this time, all the hurt, was he really capable of following through? Every time she remembered the feel of his fingers against her cheek, the look in his eyes, she wanted to go find him and kiss him senseless, then burrow into him and never come out. _It's what I wanted, after all._

But then reason would kick in. _He said he couldn't. He's hurt me so often--_ Though if she were honest, he hadn't always known that he was hurting her. _Can I still do this?_

_Do I still want to?_

The truth was, she didn't know what to think. She simply didn't have enough information.

Her gaze caught on the irises, now upright in a vase left over from Christmas. _This is ridiculous._ She grabbed her phone. He'd be awake, she knew it as well as she knew his name.

"I want to talk," she said abruptly when he answered.

He didn't equivocate, which--despite his recent actions--surprised her. "All right," he replied calmly. "Where? My place? Yours? Somewhere more...neutral?"

She'd only thought in terms of their homes. Neutral sounded very good. "Um. You know that park near my apartment?"

"The one with the big blue swingset? Yes."

"I'll meet you there." It wasn't until she hung up that it occurred to her that she had just assumed he had the time to meet her now, but he hadn't said anything, and she wasn't in a mood to worry about it.

She was closer, so she reached the park first, but it wasn't ten minutes before Grissom arrived. She sat on the back of a bench, resting her feet on the seat and her elbows on her knees, and watched him approach with his distinctive tilting stride. Fortunately for her sense of privacy, the mothers and small children taking advantage of a mild morning were all some distance away.

He halted a few feet away from the bench, and simply looked at her. Sara pursed her lips, struggling to master the roil of emotions in her gut, and finally spoke. "What _is_ it with you, Grissom?"

The words came out in a harsher tone than she'd intended, but all he did was raise a brow. "What do you mean?"

"I mean...all this." She gestured as though to encompass his recent peculiar behavior. Her nerves drove her to her feet, and she faced him. "This--this--attention. Why now?"

He cocked his head the way he did when he was looking for an answer he already knew. "Isn't it obvious?"

"The Marlin case." Sara exhaled sharply.

"In part." His mouth twisted. "The parallels were...disturbing."

She shook her head, compelled to the truth. "You could never be like that. Never in a million years."

His smile was small, and sad. "Sara, I already am." He put his hands in his pockets. "You heard what I said. Two middle-aged men who never touch anyone unless they're wearing gloves."

Sara choked. "You knew I was there?"

"Of course." He gave her a professorial look, briefly scolding. "I'll admit, if I hadn't been so tired I might not have said all that I did, but..."

She stared at him a moment, reorganizing her assumptions, before going on. "You said you couldn't take the risk."

"Past tense."

"What?"

"Couldn't. Past tense."

"Grissom..." She shivered. Something was changing, but she couldn't tell if it was good or bad.

"Do you even know what I was talking about, Sara?" He squinted up briefly at the sky. "I've spent most of my life alone. I've worked hard, not always consciously, to keep things on an even keel. To avoid...messiness."

She felt the corner of her mouth curve up without her permission. "And I'm messy?"

Grissom snorted. "No, but you're a source of energy. If I let you into my life, there's no telling where it would go." He sighed. "Sara, I wasn't able to risk my stability, my contentment, the...the balance of my heart. It just took so long for me to figure out that contentment had very little to do with how I felt any more."

His voice went lower, as though the words were harder to get out. "I eventually realized that I was losing you anyway." He swallowed. "I don't want to lose you, Sara."

His admission made her throat hurt, but she ignored the pain and thought for a moment, absorbing his words. "What if I'm not willing to take the risk anymore?"

His brows shot up, and she elaborated. "Grissom...I've spent years wanting you. I never made a secret of how I felt. And now, after all that time, I finally quit. I gave up. You want to know when?"

He nodded slowly, never taking his eyes from her.

"When I asked you to pin me down." She saw him wince a little. "We could have powered the Strip from the energy between us, and you just ignored it like it wasn't there."

"So you decided to hurt me." There was no accusation in his voice, but the words stung all the same.

"I didn't plan it," she blurted. "But...yeah, probably."

They were both silent; then Sara let out a long breath of frustration. "I gave _up_. I figured, if all you wanted was to be colleagues, then that's what I'd do. And _now_ you come and tell me you've changed your mind."

She chose her words very carefully. "I should put you through hell for what you've done to me, Gil."

His gaze didn't waver. "I'd let you," he replied.

The soft words took her aback, puncturing her anger. It was so strange to see him lay himself open to her, and she found herself without an answer.

When she failed to respond, Grissom seemed to come to a decision. Pulling his hands from his pockets, he stepped a little closer and took her hand in his. Keeping his eyes on hers, he raised it to his face and pressed his mouth gently against her fingers. Sara drew in a sharp breath; the warmth, the silky prickle, the look in his eyes all combined to start a familiar quiver in her belly.

"Take a chance." The words were low and coaxing, and she could feel the vibration of his voice in her fingertips...and the tremor running under his skin. "Give me one more chance, Sara. Please."

Part of her wanted to pull violently away, to retreat from the swell of emotion that was threatening her control. Part of her wanted him to overwhelm her, to take the choice from her, even though she despised such a thought. _I could end this, with one word._

She studied his face. That tiny smile was there, half-hidden by her hand, and his expression was calm--but she could see something in his gaze, something that pierced her through and through. There was nothing casual about this for him, nothing light. He was offering her a choice, letting her decide, but it wasn't just her heart in the balance. Something desperate lurked in the back of his eyes, something strained and aching.

_Oh._ It was the first time in so long that she'd seen so clearly. _It's his soul._

The months of anguish and stubbornness, the nasty little justifiable desire to hurt that gnawed at her--her perspective tilted, and they became, not insignificant, but outweighed. He'd suffered as much as she had, in his own way, and while it was mostly his own fault, she couldn't bear to see his pain.

And...

_I want this._

She pulled her hand from his grasp, and heard his breath catch, but before he could move she laid her palm against his face and put her other hand on his waist. Delicately, carefully, she ran her fingertips over his cheek, moving from warm skin to soft hair. He stopped breathing altogether as she cupped his jaw and let her thumb stroke over his chin and throat.

There were no words in her. She watched her hand drift down to his shoulder and slowly leaned into him, her arms sliding around him, and it was with inexpressible comfort that she felt him pull her close and hard. She turned her head just a little, just enough to push her face into his hair, and her trembling broke free as he exhaled, deep and unsteady.

For a moment his embrace grew so strong that he almost lifted her off her feet, but at her intake of breath he relaxed a little. She moved closer, greedy and incredulous, and his hands made slow circles on her back, spreading warmth, soothing her shivers.

It was several minutes before Grissom spoke; his voice was quiet and rough. "As I've said before, I'm deficient in a lot of ways. Are you sure?"

Sara tightened her grip, as though he might try to get free. "I told you. I've wanted this for years. What makes you think I'm going to back away _now_?"

She felt his chest move as he let out a faint laugh. "I don't know. I guess I don't feel like this is real."

She made a small noise of agreement, then raised her head so she could look at him. "Are _you_ sure? I'm no picnic to be around sometimes, you know."

She watched, mildly fascinated, as his gaze scanned her face--eyes, nose, mouth, chin--as though cataloguing, and then returned to meet hers. "I know. But--it's you. That's all that matters."

She swallowed, and smiled at him. As if it were a signal, he kissed her. His mouth on hers was firm and gentle at the same time, and she barely heard the soft sound he made; it felt like her personal electrical system was in overload. The instant he began to lift away, she put her hand on the back of his head and pulled him back. The kiss didn't stay gentle.

By the time it was over, she could feel the deep shaking running through him. One of his arms was wrapped around her waist, and the other hand cupped her skull, fingers buried in her hair. She pressed her cheek against his, delighting in the feel of his beard against her skin. "I won't take it away," she whispered fiercely in his ear. "Ever."

* * *

 

Grissom had had similar moments of triumph in his life, but they were very rare. And none of them had ever had quite the marveling bliss of Sara's arms around him, the absolute, stunned joy of knowing that she still wanted him. He sat in silence now, squinting a little against the light that filled his townhouse, and simply basked in the warm weight in his arms. Sara was sleeping, and he didn't want to wake her.

When she'd touched him, when she'd held him, his heart had hurt with relief. Even now, the ache was still fading. He'd taken her home with him, claiming the right to feed her, neither of them wanting to separate. And it had pained him to see her get up from her seat and come to him where he stood at the sink, and embrace him with a hesitancy that showed him--again--how much he'd hurt her in the past. He wondered bitterly how long it would take for her confidence to assert itself.

Grissom sighed, and leaned his cheek against her hair. _She's here now._ It is not always given to mortals to change the decisions they make, but sometimes they get the chance. He'd chosen again, chosen to take the risk, to chase the wonderful life she offered. _I don't know if I've ever wanted anything more._

Well, yes, he did. He wanted Sara's happiness. Fortunately for him, it seemed to lie with him.

The slender form leaning against him stirred. "Y'know, Griss, you so need a bigger couch," she said sleepily.

He looked her over, noting how tightly her long legs were curled against the opposite armrest. "You're right," he said, amused. "One big enough for two."

Sara pressed her face against his chest for a moment. "How long have I been asleep?"

He glanced at the clock. "About three hours."

"And no nightmares." She sat up, stretching. "Sweet!"

A yawn caught him by surprise, and Sara grinned, that wide smile he loved so much. He blinked as she reached up and removed his glasses; she folded them and set them aside, then leaned back against the far end of the couch and opened her arms. "Come here. It's your turn."

A number of objections tumbled through his head--the couch was too short, she needed more sleep, he was too heavy. He shut them all firmly away, and let her pull him down to rest on her, his hands finding their way around her as though they already knew. She was soft, and real, and she smelled of lemons and warmth; her arms held him close, one hand rubbing his shoulder, and she pressed a kiss to the top of his head. "Sleep," she told him.

So he did.


	6. Epilogue

"I still can't believe she talked you into this," Catherine said, amused.

Grissom shrugged and tugged his cap further down over his eyes to shade them from the Saturday sun. "This is Lindsey's first soccer game of the season. How could I miss it?"

Warrick chuckled from Catherine's other side. "Yeah, she's got you wrapped around her finger, 'Uncle Gil'." He ignored the glare Grissom shot in his direction, and leaned back on the grass, resting his elbows on the slight slope. "Where is Sara, anyway? The game's about to start."

"Right here," Sara said from behind them. "I finally found a parking space."

Grissom edged over to give her room to sit next to him, but she surprised him by sitting down behind instead. The ref's whistle blew, and they all turned to look down at the field at the game's beginning; before Grissom could look back again, Sara settled herself with her knees on either side of him, and wrapped her arms around his shoulders. A grin spread slowly over his face, and he leaned back against her, one hand rising to encircle her wrist. Catherine and Warrick were watching the players; Grissom pulled Sara's hand to his mouth and pressed a kiss to the palm. Her soft chuckle teased his ears.

He sighed, content.

 

**End.**


End file.
